


Culpability

by fireblooms



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 17:47:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3456275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireblooms/pseuds/fireblooms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I came to return my gun,” Bond says. “To my quartermaster." Q blinks, drags confused teeth over a torn lip, as Bond’s hand slips easily into the thin shadow where suit meets man to pull out 1.5 pounds of perfectly engineered metal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Culpability

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as a response to the idea that MI6 would probably do a serious investigation into the Silva Incident and that Q would be the type of person to punish himself severely for the way things went.
> 
> I apologize for any errors & I hope you enjoy this first installment of my first fic to ever see the light of day. ;)

The consensus is that one is not simply “let go” from MI6 after an internal investigation. It’s a shame that his genius is contained in a human shell; he should be able to make something better. Reinvention, reincarnation, apparently they’re all possible here if you try hard enough. If you bleed enough for the right people.

After the Silva situation, he resolves to work on his pride. They award him two weeks of mandatory vacation time, a ticking-time bomb delivered onto him by steel-eyed superiors who have mountain ranges of files as proof that he knew--should have known--what he was doing, that he could have played a knowing part in Silva’s plan. He accepts, but holds back on ‘gratefully’, feels imaginary laser sights on his chest as he makes his way back down to Q branch.

He knows that as soon as he is off premises, no longer an overseeing eye on their servers, they will go over the incident with a fine-toothed comb and find him wanting--he can’t suppress a sigh of relief when the door beeps cheerfully and turns green at the tap of his key card--but as much as he is wanting, he is also the best they’ve got. He hopes they remember it before his two weeks of purgatory are up.

Once the opaque door shuts and the locks automatically engage he tidies his office, prepares an email with his standing orders, work updates, and escalation contact information to be sent automatically at 9pm. He collects his things for this “vacation” with impressively precise motions. He avoids eye contact on the way out and nearly forgets his wallet in his desk drawer, has to remind himself to keep breathing, that he has not been found guilty yet. Sending him home just to have an agent murder him in a dark alley, one tube ride and three blocks away is too much spy thriller to be reality.

After nodding to the security guard he rounds the corner the wrong way and walks briskly for the other tube station. It would be foolish to go straight home. After all, he intends to take a pound of his own flesh in pennance, regardless of MI6’s plans. He should have known better. He did know better. He is a prideful, risk-taking, egotistical fool with the weight of a nation resting on his chest. He will need help lifting it, quietly reinventing himself in the shadow of these great expectations, before he can be useful.

The train ride is short and as far as he can tell, no one is following him, which is as good as saying no one is.

The Velvet is on the border of “Don’t Come Here After Dark” and cautious gentrification. Newly minted expensive organic stores rule the crumbling pavement between dingy takeaways that are--more often than not--a front for heavy opiates and money laundering. He breathes deeply in the anonymity and fog for the first time that day.

The door is heavy metal and poorly lit, just like the inside. Q moves to the bar - concrete, black, underlit with light blue lights. He orders a gin & tonic. He thinks about martinis. He thinks about his sins. The man next to him is wearing a gimp suit and Q stares impassively through him, runs his tongue against the sharpness of his own teeth. It’s still early and the kind of desperation he’s looking for usually comes with last call.

Two hours, an increase in patrons to 75% of the club’s capacity and five polite turn-downs later and Q is approached by a stunning blonde with enhanced breasts (20% hard working bra, 50% silicone, he calculates with a small smile, noticing the bartender’s immediate interest). She smiles back, without warmth but also without the promise of malice and he sighs into his drink already thinking of polite turn-down number six.

“My friend would like to meet you,” she says leaning close, turns to the barman and holds up a single finger, “whiskey. neat.” met with a nod over the noise.

“Is that so?” He’s pulls out his phone. No texts or emails from MI6. He searches the CCTV around his flat--out of habit, he tells himself, when he finds nothing amiss.

She hums noncommittally, spinning a silver chain around her thin neck. 15 psi to break it, he thinks idly, uncomfortable by how quickly the knowledge comes. He has no idea how the agents do it. He sighs, places his now empty drink in the center of the bar coaster and pushes out of his seat. His hand waves in a small, pompous circle and she leads the way, drink in hand.

The man at the table is cliche, Q thinks. Possible surgeon or investment banker, completely without empathy. He can spot the type from a mile away - he works with 9 of the bastards. The subtly flexing arms and eye contact all scream Control Issues. 14 stone of muscle aching to split him in two. Absolutely perfect for this evening.

The man offers a chair, well, kicks it out with his foot. Q sits. The woman slides into the booth, eyes downcast. “Hello darling,” he says fingers brushing hers as he takes the whiskey, cold eyes on Q.

“I saw you over at the bar. You looked lonely.”

Q smirks but doesn’t respond, drags droplets of condensation around the table in front of him with his index finger instead.

“Why don’t you tell me about yourself.” The man says.

Q blinks, speaks before thinking, makes it a test. “Is that really necessary?”

The man’s eyes harden and the thick muscle in his forearm twitches from the force of an aborted action. A backhand, Q calculates, most likely.

“Come home with us; I’ll show you what’s necessary.” A practiced raised eyebrow, making his awareness of the faux-pas obvious, is all Q allows himself before raising his chin in acquiescence.  

“Well then,” he sits up straighter in his chair, “the only thing worth knowing about me is that you’re exactly what I need tonight.” He looks up through his lashes. Playing the coquette has always been a strength of his; he works best best when people underestimate. Control Issues’s grin is a feral promise and the shiver he allows himself  is genuine.

The group of three wait for Investment Banker to finish his drink before moving to the exit, a thick hand wrapped possessively around Q’s neck directing him effortlessly through the growing crowd.

The man (“If you must call a name, I believe ‘Master’ is all you will need.” Q refrains from rolling his eyes, murmurs “yes, sir” to the floor) takes them back to his apartment. He registers that it’s modern and hyper-masculine before being firmly directed to floor.

“What’s the word, kid?” He asks, face aligned against Q’s, staring down the line of his body, as his wraps tight circles of hemp rope around his wrists. “Turing,” Q answers, gaze averted, knows better than to give in to the voice that says “you won’t need it.” His partner for the evening makes a small unimpressed sound in the back of his throat, secures his knot  and stands.

Margot, who offered her name on the walk over, enters the room with a handsome wooden box the size of her torso resting across her arms. She stands in front of Q unmoving, a human table, as Control Issues opens the latch and surveys the contents. Q admires her shoes, a deep blood red with a metal spike holding her weight. They could kill a man, if it was necessary. He imagines M would have appreciated shoes like that.

Q is not surprised when the blindfold covers his vision, doesn’t react when his face is pressed into the floor, his ass raising as a result, muscles too tight for flexibility. His skin ripples with the first blow from the paddle and he can’t help the gasp that escapes. Hands tucked against his tailbone, Q curls them tight against the onslaught of thick leather, can feel his face burning as red as his rear. His master for the evening hums appreciatively and continues his introduction to Q’s body, occasionally pausing to rub his hands against the welts rising on his skin as tears squeeze from the corner of Q’s eyes.

Eventually Investment Banker’s breathing is as harsh as Q’s. He leans over, pulls his face to the side to kiss him, messily, pressing his obvious arousal against Q’s burning and welted skin like a promise. Q whimpers into his mouth as he pulls away. “Such an eager whore,” he says, plowing the fingers of one hand through Q’s sweaty hair, tugging at the ends. With the other, Q hears the clink of a belt being unlocked and slid through the loops, a sound that takes him back to MI6, listening as 007 removes his suit as a woman murmurs appreciately in the background. He is not shocked when the leather comes to rest around his neck, pulled snug against his adam’s apple. He wonders if Bond has done this--how often he has done this with his own belt. He licks his lips and swallows.

Control Issues pulls away from Q to change position, the cold air against his exposed skin makes him shiver. As quickly as he pulled away he returns, a hand rough on Q’s jaw, a thumb pushing at the corner of his mouth. Q swipes the finger with his tongue, obediently opens his mouth. He is dragged forward, feels the smooth brush of a cock against his lips and, as expected, moves his tongue around the head in thorough licks. A heavy pressure at the back of his neck encourages Q turn his attention to sucking down the shaft, which he does, breathing through his nose, throat expanding against the thick strap of the belt, more focused on not gaging than showing off his considerable skills.

Breathless “just like that”s and “good boy”s are met with deep throated hums, hair tugs and light slaps with gasps and moans. His hands are rough on Q’s body, pressing bruises into fair skin just because they can.

Margot perches on the the black leather couch and watches them. Q catches her hand pressing into her thigh, inching upward--nearly tance-like--and feels a kinship. How many times had he been the voyeur as one of his agents indulged in the carnal arts, as part of the mission or as an extra-curricular.

Control Issues brings him back to the moment with a thumb press, rolling him open, drags blunt fingernails across his thighs. He presses his teeth deep into the tender curve of his ass, bringing tears to Q’s eyes as he chokes on a gasp. Fingers are quickly followed by the main event once Q is bent over the arm of the sofa, face pressed against soft leather. The pace is punishing, the sweet friction against his cock barely takes away from the burn. Q groans and rotates his hips and loses himself in the slapping of skin, allows the tightness of leather against his throat to send him higher.

 

The evening lasts far longer than Q thought it would.

 

It’s 4 am when he leaves the headspace and with it the apartment. He wishes it was raining - it would be more appropriate. Instead, the air is crisp, the sky plum in the light pollution. There are finger-shaped bruises decorating his arm that he’s positive match the hue. He pulls out his phone, checks the CCTV around his apartment, checks for a text alert from his home alarm system-- nothing. If they want him punished (‘the ultimate punishment,’ he thinks with a snort) it will happen regardless of his location, he may as well be somewhere familiar.

The key slides into the lock, he types in the code and relaxes instinctively. In comfortable darkness he hangs his keys on the hook, walks the six and a half steps through the foyer and into the kitchen, shedding his coat onto a unbalanced kitchen chair. He swallows and his throat clicks - too much use after too much time. This used to be easier. Sighing he flicks on the kettle and heads to the couch.

Q flops face-first onto the black microsuede, body sated and sore but his mind still reeling, itching for absolution. How much pain will he have to take to absolve his ultimate sin of stupidity? Half-serious equations start forming behind his eyes, pressed into his face by his forearm.

The floor lamp across the room turns on with a click.

Three things happen instantly. First, Q’s heart drops like a stone. Second, Q’s body follows suit in a last ditch attempt at self preservation and he falls to the floor behind the coffee table. Third, 007 wishes him a “good morning, Q,” in a voice devoid of humor.

From under the table he stares at gleaming leather shoes attached to legs spread wide. He wrestles with his breathing (and nerves and stomach and dick - really? good god). Q licks his lips. “Good morning, 007. Making yourself at home, I see.” In response, he makes a noncommittal noise and adjusts himself in Q’s overstuffed reading chair. Q watches his legs shift, shoes gliding across the carpet and holds his breath.

From the floor he says “Is there something I can do for you?” instead of ‘are you here to kill me?’ and feels victorious. Bond huffs out a small laugh and Q wonders briefly--irrationally--if 007 is psychic as well as functionally immortal.

The sharp incessant whistle of the kettle breaks their awkward conversation. Q pulls himself into a sitting position and hopes he looks less wrecked than he feels. “I’ll just get that then,” he says, haltingly, unsure, inherently submissive and rises the rest of the way to his feet. He doesn’t make eye contact as he walks, calm and collected into the kitchen. He fills two mugs and returns to the living room. He hesitates for approximately one third of a second before crossing the room and offering a mug to Bond.

Blue eyes are intent as he accepts the tea without a word. Q nods, maintains eye contact as he sits carefully back on the couch. He thinks about a documentary he saw about large cats and their prey. They sip in silence.

“I must admit, I expected you home much earlier, quartermaster,” Bond says finally. Q shifts. Grimaces. places his mug in the middle of a coaster on the coffee table. He says “yes, well.” Catches Bond’s eye again and swallows. “I found I needed a bit of a… distraction after the events of the past few days.” He runs a hand down his rumpled shirt and collects himself.

“If you had let me know you intended to stop by, I would have made myself available.”

Bond says “indeed” like the dark slide of worn leather on skin. Q thinks of chess games played on a board of trip wires and licks his lips before he can stop himself.

“I heard about your vacation,” Bond confides with a smirk, after the light clank of glass hitting wood.

“Ah. Word of my two weeks of fun are already making the rounds then? Not-” He leans back against the couch, fights a wince as muscles strain beneath welted skin. “-that I would expect anything less from an office of spies.”

“Truthfully, I would be concerned if you hadn't heard. You agents are worse than my grandmother's knitting circle.”

Bond's arm rests across the back of the chair, black blazer looking artful against the rust colored leather. “You don’t seem the type to approve of office gossip.”

"Mmm. Yes, all evidence does show that you have no idea what type I am."

Bond exhales, Q imagines a laugh is hidden in the soft sound.

“This brings us back to my original question. What exactly can I do for you, 007?”

Q can’t help but think of the rumours about Bond breaking into the previous M’s flat to… well, they never did say. Personally, Q believed he did it for companionship, the opportunity to talk to someone who has enough clearance to matter. It’s what he would do if his own flat was as cold and sterile as routine surveillance proved Bond’s to be. It’s what he would do, if he had to do the things Bond does.

Bond shrugs and it is elegant and enigmatic. ‘Naturally,’ Q thinks; he says more with his body than anyone Q has ever known. For James Bond, truth can only be found in physical action. Each smooth redistribution of weight, hair-twitch of his ring finger, flutter of blonde lashes is another man’s speech.

“In that case,” Q rises slowly, holds back a tense sigh at the pain, fingers curled loosely around his mug, “I’m going to bed.” He looks around the room, taking stock of the locks and sensors on the windows and door. He holds Bond’s gazed pointedly, “please lock up when you leave. I don’t enjoy uninvited guests.”

As his mug touches down in the sink, a hand curls around the back of Q’s neck, the other holds his wrist in warning. “Tell me that what happened to you tonight was consensual,” Bond breathes harshly behind his ear. Q freezes to military stillness, both hands automatically locked on the linoleum edge of the sink, naturally obeying unspoken commands..

“It was consensual,” he repeats to the room, shocked by how loud his voice seems “and entirely none of your business.”

Q lets out a deep breath and turns, taking a quick check on his body. The hair on his arms and legs is standing and he’s developed a slight tremor now that the immediate danger has passed. He feels alive, flourishing in that overly observant, exposed place. His mouth goes dry at the implication, as water from the sink’s edge clings to his shirt.

"I came to return my gun,” Bond says. “To my quartermaster." Q blinks, drags confused teeth over a torn lip, as Bond’s hand slips easily into the thin shadow where suit meets man to pull out 1.5 pounds of perfectly engineered metal.

The thought, hanging in his mind of the stack of files the height of his hand back at MI6 currently being microscopically combed and weighed against his allegiance, loyalty, and the bottom line is erased the moment Bond rises, gun barrel held loosely in his hand. The most martial of peace offering.

He nods in understanding. “Thank you, 007,” falling from this lips without thought. The moment crackles between them like a taser charge.

“Oh,” Bond wraps Q’s thin wrist in his hand in the space of a breath “the pleasure was all mine, Quartermaster.”

His calloused fingers squeeze against freshly bruised flesh and Q shivers. Ice blue eyes meet a dilated hazel. Q’s hand trembles open when Bond presses a pressure point. He leans in and Q’s eyes flutter shut. Q can’t help the gasp when the skin-warm gun slips into his hand. Bond smirks, knowing and full of promise before backing away. His fingers trailing metal and skin, binding them.

The front door clicks shut five shaking inhalations later and Q allows himself to slide slowly down his cabinets to the linoleum floor. 


End file.
